


Here We Are

by Winterum



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: First Time, Foreplay, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3840472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterum/pseuds/Winterum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s difficult. Rick doesn’t know why, but Daryl and he fall into brotherhood so easily, yet when it comes to this, every turn threatens to throw one or both of them around the bend and off the road. He doesn’t recall falling in love with Lori being this intense and testy, with barbed words and too much desire. It was easy before. They’d molded into one another, into wife and husband, into a comfortable Georgia house, into parenthood. </p><p>Until they didn’t. </p><p>“I'm not fighting you”, Rick confesses into the hot open air between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here We Are

The prison is a sweltering enclosure of unaired heat in the late afternoons. Pungent and oppressive. Without functional windows or vents, it only traps the Georgia summer in and seals its tendrils behind thick walls and metal bars. They’ve long learned to keep far from the sleeping quarters during the day, salvaging what little hygiene still remains by keeping the sweat and odor of rot in the main halls and courtyard.

A few sparse rows of metal cans and glass jars line the mass area, each housing a scraggly malnourished plant. It’s a charming thought, and no one has the heart to dissuade Beth of her efforts. The unearthed plants never survive for long, but she keeps trying. Every few weeks Glenn or Maggie will shuffle out something a little bent out of shape but still green, and they watch day by day as Beth hovers over them with a hopeful lilt in her voice. Her smile is blankly radiant even as the leaves yellow from the edges, and curl in on themselves.

Rick pulls at his shirt to air out the sticking sweat beneath his arms. His jeans are much too thick, but there’s nothing else to change into. Each step only serves to slick skin and denim together into one. He can taste the salt above his upper lip. A gulp of lukewarm water takes with it the damp flavor of sweat.

The telltale noises of Daryl's work makes him feel even grittier. Rick grimaces on reflex at the sound of game hitting the cutting board, and the thick drag of fur pulled away like a jacket off a body.

The discarded skins are thrown into a bloody bucket that’s already spilling over the edge. A shapeless head peaks out of it. It’s not a rabbit. Rick’s not sure what it is though the size is about right. An opossum maybe. Without the meat and skull to prop it up, it just hangs like a sock puppet with a pair of dead eyes that stare, unfocused and off center.

Daryl’s gaze slides over, and it’s not unfriendly, but neither is it friendly either. He jams the hilt of his knife through the belly of the animal, and makes a long opening slit downwards. Slick organs push out of the opening, dark red and smooth. They remind Rick of a time when Carl had been younger, poking at packaged kidney and liver in the meat isle.

Daryl picks and chooses what he wants, and tosses those into another bucket. Something misses and it falls splat onto the concrete.

Rick’s lips thin even as he reasons it’s the heat that’s pushing confrontation beneath his skin. He’s seen Daryl do this numerous times before, though usually it’s not this messy.

“Can I help with that?” Rick asks, jerking his jaw towards a remaining carcass. This one is slightly larger. Daryl hasn’t started in on it yet. 

The hunter snorts, and shrugs dismissively, “Dunno, can ya?”

Rick sighs, and wipes his hands on a rag that doesn’t seem too soiled. He studies Daryl’s hands, and the way they move through the routine of cutting, and skinning. He’s only ever done this a few times back in the day when Shane and he tagged along with some of the guys on the force during their hunting trips. It had always been more about the jest and friendly competition than the actual aftermath of what to do with all the meat. Rick had only learned halfheartedly, drinking beer while they’d traded bullshit stories.

He cuts into the calves, and pulls the knife upwards through the two legs of the animal. Every few inches, he pushes his hands between the meat and skin to pull and loosen. Rick works at a tremendously slow pace, feeling Daryl’s gaze on the side of his face all the while. It’s not surprising that he makes some mistakes. Cuts deeper than is necessary, or has to tug embarrassingly hard around the flank area. It’s only when the smell of urine hits his nose that Rick curses, and stops.

Daryl throws down what’s in his hands, irritated, “Fucken’ Christ, the damn ‘re you doin?” He leans over, peering at the punctured bladder sac, and mutters under his breath. Rick goes to reach for a towel but Daryl hip checks him out of the way. It’s rougher than Rick expected and he stumbles a bit to the side, elbow hitting the counter and sending his nerves tingling.

It’s the heat, Rick repeats to himself, but even then he feels his temper flaring. He can’t pinpoint his frustration. All he knows is that it’s been building since the moment he stepped inside the mess hall and saw the sopping mess all over the cutting board and concrete. It helped when he had something to concentrate on, but now that Daryl’s moodiness is apparent, it’s hard to reign in his own irritability.

“Got somethin’ to say, so say it. I can take criticism.”

Rick’s senses sharpen, hearing the  _unlike you_  at the end of that statement.

They haven’t gotten into a fight in months, and even then it was only a differing of opinions that easily resolved itself come a day and some careful thinking. He really can’t believe all that good camaraderie is suddenly pushed aside because the two of them can’t stand a little heat. Though, objectively, he knows there’s something else that’s kept the two of them prickly and anxious. Maybe even a bit nervous, as much as they ignore it and carry on as usual.

Daryl's purposefully goading him on today, giving them an excuse to air it out. Ironically in a place without any air. The crooked sneer isn’t mean but it’s daring him to broach the subject. Rick wipes his hands again, and leans against a clean spot on the counter. He goes for what he hopes is a neutral tone.

“Carol”, Rick finally says.

It throws Daryl off for a second. He blinks quickly, startled, but then the expression falls away, sewed back inside.

“What abou’ her?” he asks, gruff. He sets down the knife, and cleans his hands off in a bowl of water. When he’s finished scrubbing his fingers, the water is pink and there’s a viscous string floating against the side.

“Don’t string her along”, Rick replies, and it somehow sounds colder and harsher than he meant it to be. It comes out like a reproach. He regrets it as soon as he hears them himself.

Daryl stills. There’s a few seconds of empty silence before Daryl turns around. He takes a few steps forward, and narrows his eyes. There’s confusion there, but more than that, there’s a growing bitter twist on his mouth. He’s close enough that Rick can see the sweat in the crook of his neck, and the locks of dark hair that have stuck to his skin.

“Who says I’m stringin’ her along, huh? What, I gotta be that asshole that decides that Ed wasn’t fuckin’ enough?”

“That’s not what I mean”, Rick quickly interjects. And then he processes the words, and closes his mouth.

“What d’ya mean then, Grimes? Fuckin’ enlighten me.” Daryl doesn’t let up on the anger in his voice, but his shoulders are already falling away into exhaustion. He steps away, looking at the fucking mess of blood and meat and piss everywhere. Daryl doesn’t even know why he started this conversation in the first place. He’s normally not the one to start them. Goddamn, he should’ve just kept his damn mouth shut.

“She’s a good woman, Daryl. One of the strongest, and most self-sacrificing. She deserves someone like-” Rick pauses, and forces himself to continue. “You’d have everyone’s blessings.”

He drags a hand through his hair, uncaring for doing so since Daryl isn’t facing him anyways. He’s been having this conversation in his mind for the past few weeks, and it somehow never goes the way he wants it to. He’d meant to say ‘our blessings’. It’s what he means anyway, but he’d stumbled through the words.

Daryl seems to deflate. The sharpness of his mouth fades into a weary crimp of the lips. He pushes his hair out of his eyes, and lets the silence between them cool.

“Don’t want everyone’s blessings, Rick. Never did. Carol’s a good friend, nothin’ more.”

Rick doesn’t say anything in response, so Daryl looks away, suddenly unable to continue the conversation. He should probably wipe down the counters. And then the buckets, and floors. So much good his tantrum did. He fights to keep from staring out of the periphery of his eyes, feeling self-conscious and like he revealed too much.

“We done?”

Rick breathes out shakily, and then looks up at the old stains on the concrete, “I don’t know. Are we?”

 

* * *

 

In the end, Rick guesses it's him who folds. Though, that's not right, and he knows it. It was never about winning Daryl in the first place.

The sun is setting, and the courtyard is nearly vacant. Maggie and Beth are lying back on the concrete, arms over their eyes, squinting into the blue of the sky. Their shoulders are barely brushing, but there’s an ease between them that hadn’t been there a few days ago.

Maggie tangles their fingertips together. It’s a small gesture but Beth looks over, and lets her gaze fall across the bridge that’s formed from their joined hands. The smile on her face is tentative, but warm and promising.

Rick looks away from the scene, sliding his gaze over to the figure leaning against the door jamb.

He remembers his own baffled amusement when this man trampled through the forest into the clearing, mouth shaping into loud curses. He thinks he was wearing a white t-shirt that day, only because he recalls Daryl’s look of disbelief and following that, anger. Disdain. Sometimes he has nightmares of that first meeting, but without Shane there to barrel Daryl into the ground. There’s always the bite of a metal cuff around one of his hands, and a loud roaring noise in his ears. His thighs are weighed down, but he’s too scared to look at what’s holding him to the concrete.

On the occasions that he remembers those dreams, he feels guilty, with a phantom ache in his belly where Daryl’s knife might have sunk.

Though that heaviness could have also easily been desire.

Rick extends a hand to Daryl’s sloped shoulder. Before his fingers come in contact though, the hunter’s eyes pin him in place. Clear blue and focused, they seem to measure Rick against some invisible standard. The weight of his heart on a scale perhaps, with the beast, the walker lumbering on the edge, rotting jaws agape.  _Dad, look at my history project. I’m doing ancient Egypt. This is Ammit, the Gobbler. Isn’t it cool?_

He waits patiently, and doesn’t dare to blink for fear of missing a sign. The moment stretches until Rick can feel the beginning soreness of his arm. He draws it back to his side, hands clenching into the budding moisture of his palm.

Words come to his mind. Cluttered and more affected than he’d like. Some of them are hasty apologies, others are diplomatic but needy little explanations,  _this doesn’t change anything Daryl, you’re still my friend, my brother, regardless of whether I- you_

Daryl wraps a hand below Rick’s elbow, slowly drawing the arm forward. His eyes fall on a grey bruise that’s mostly healed. Only at the edge is there a purple ring where the blood is still dark and close to the surface. He presses his thumb there, gradually increasing the pressure of his grip. Rick watches. He can feel his pulse hammer erratically below his jaw.

“Shouldn’t ha’ done that. The other day. Wasn’t tryna hurt you, Rick.”

He waits for Daryl to move away, but he doesn’t.

“It’s fine. It was an accident.”

Daryl exhales through his mouth, and sweeps his thumb across Rick’s skin in the same breath. It’s not quite a caress, but it might as well be for how sensitive Rick suddenly feels. The insides of his forearms have always been extraordinarily ticklish. He wonders if Daryl is ticklish at all. He doesn’t seem to be the type. It’s a silly thought that he nudges away. 

Fighting his anxiety, Rick moves that hand closer and closer to Daryl’s jaw, slow and deliberate enough to broadcast all his intentions between them. The hunter doesn’t move away, and that give Rick the courage to bring them a little closer. Sparse facial hair scrapes against his knuckles. He can feel a soft plume of warm air near his thumb.

“If I read wrong. Daryl, if I’m readin’ you wrong, you should tell me right now. We’re gonna be all right no matter what you say, but I just want to know.”

Daryl huffs, shuffling so that he’s leaning less into the courtyard and more into the shadow of the door. Rick’s arm falls back to his side. The day is starting to slip away, the horizon colored more by pinks and purples than orange. It’s oddly quiet, with only the faint chorus of walkers snarling helplessly in the far end of the courtyard.

The anticipation and dread has culminated tightly in his stomach, fueling that phantom ache in the center of his body. He can come back from this, Rick thinks. He’s taken worse, far worse in the past few months. It wouldn’t be anything out of his expectations.

“You’re a fuckin’ slow reader, Grimes. The slowest,” Daryl finally replies, voice thick, but almost definitely self-conscious.

Rick can’t help it.

He’s staring. Staring at the faint downturn of lips that’s hiding the beginnings of a smirk. And for once, it looks more like laughter than a conditioned curve of lips to mock. He doesn’t quite remember if anyone’s out in the courtyard or the prison mass behind them. Daryl watches him against the door, quiet and waiting, up until the moment Rick’s eyes fall shut, and the two of them are done with waiting. 

 

* * *

 

“Belt”, Rick murmurs brokenly against Daryl's temple, lips sliding against the salty skin. Daryl shudders imperceptibly, and then they're scrambling through the motions of undoing his pants. The denim is rough against their fumbling knuckles, but eventually Daryl squirms away, and kicks out of them himself.

In a second he's back with his fists in Rick's collar, pulling at the buttons while Rick palms at Daryl's back. The muscles there shift from movement, warm with sweat, and distinctively masculine beneath Rick's hands. He's mesmerized with running his fingers up and down the center dip of spine. He clutches hard enough to leave pale imprints on the toned skin.

Daryl hisses, and grinds their hips together, hard and clumsy without a hope of rhythm. Rick's jeans must scrub at his thighs, but Daryl pulls them back together when he makes to move.

“Don't matter, s' good,” Daryl grunts into Rick's ear, and the low husk goes straight to his crotch. “Jesus Daryl”, Rick says, voice hardly above a whisper, and the effect must go both ways because the hunter's breath hitches at the sound.

It only occurs to them when Rick's missing his shirt, and Daryl his pants that they're out in the open. Close to the sleeping quarters, but still within sight and possibility of anyone walking in on them. Beth, Carl, Carol, anyone of them. Rick untangles himself, pulling away in sudden awareness. He fights to catch his breath, but makes sure to check their perimeter first. Clear.

There's a beat of hesitation, and a weary look on Daryl's face before his mouth goes tight. Rick tilts his head at him, wondering what could flip the hunter’s switch so quickly from swallowing grunts to a cagey stare. Something’s missing. Rick struggles through a haze to find it.

Then Daryl shakes his head, and reaches for his jeans. His hands are shaking a little, and it takes far longer than Rick wishes it did for him to realize that Daryl’s stomaching through embarrassment and presumed rejection. No, he wants to say, no, not that, but Daryl’s already skirting away from his hands like a skittish colt.

Before he can grab his clothes, Rick presses in, taking advantage of the way Daryl pulls backwards. He knows better than to push Daryl into a wall, but the better part, the rational part, of his mind has long been torched by the August heat. Levelled to the ground by the fear of another misunderstanding. Cornered, the hunter sucks on his teeth and steels his gaze into something defensive.

Rick softens his stance. Daryl's a collection of piled up defense mechanisms. Rick knows this. He hides his fears and insecurities behind stop signs, and yellow lights. They’re hard to see, and even harder to reach for. It’s much easier for him to roll back up with his fists balled, and eyes guarded, darting for the next best path of survival.

“Hey”, Rick says, evenly as possible. “Daryl, this ain't a fight.”

Daryl slides him a wary, pissed off look before ducking his head. His ears are flushed red.

It’s difficult. Rick doesn’t know why but they fall into brotherhood so easily, but when it comes to this, every turn threatens to throw one or both of them around the bend and off the road. He doesn’t recall falling in love with Lori being this intense and testy. It was easy then. They molded into each other, into wife and husband, into a comfortable Georgia house, into parenthood.

Until they didn’t.

“I'm not fighting you”, Rick confesses into the hot open air between them.

Rick wraps his hand lightly around Daryl’s wrist, and allows a small careful smile. There’s another awkward pause when they reach Daryl’s cell- Rick’s being further and more likely to be surprised with company. He’s still holding his shirt, while Daryl has his jeans half done up, though barely circling his hips. It’s a miracle they weren’t seen. He wouldn’t know what he’d have said if someone saw them right now.

He doesn’t have any lies ready when it comes to this.

Rick sits back onto the twin cot. He’s a little amused by how nervous he suddenly feels whereas they had been all but rutting against one another in the open, minutes ago.

Daryl swallows, audible in the small cell. It’s still not as private as either of them likes.

“How do you…” Daryl begins to ask, but can’t seem to voice the other half of the question. There’s a vague meaningless hand gesture to accompany the words. It feels tentative and a little unsure. He scowls to cover up for the flush on his cheeks.

Rick finds himself easing into a fond grin, but at Daryl’s confused frown, he simply picks a side of the bed and settles down. Daryl toes off his boots, and after a moment of deliberation, decides to leave his jeans on. He edges himself on to the bed, eyes cataloging Rick’s every movement.

An eyelid falls shut when Rick sweeps a thumb across it, though the other stays open. Carefully watching. Rick wonders if this is how Daryl’s always looked at him. Always watched out for him. He can’t remember the color of the ocean anymore, but Daryl’s eyes must be a close match. The shallower parts close to the warm sandy beaches.

Rick leans across and presses their lips together. It’s not entirely chaste, but neither does it have that desperate urgency from before. Daryl breathes into his mouth, before jerking away sheepishly. “S’rry, probably should’ve-“

He doesn’t get to say the rest before Rick’s threading his fingers into his hair and pulling him down for an open mouthed kiss. Probably should’ve washed up, he thinks that’s what Daryl meant to say. It’s true, his skin isn’t sticky with sweat, but he’s still a bit humid and his breath isn’t winning anyone over today.

Rick can’t find it in him to care though. Not when he’s pushing the half zipped jeans down Daryl’s hips, and nudging the elastic band aside for a few more inches of skin. His palm meets strong pelvic bones, and the warm curve behind. Daryl pulls him in closer, mouth more demanding against his as Rick slides his thumb back and forth into the crease between groin and hip.

It’s easy to let Daryl touch him. Rick’s eyes close for long moments at a time when Daryl feels across his stomach and along his flanks. Every once in a while the hunter squeezes his shoulder and digs his fingers into the knots of tension in his muscles. Rick lets out a frankly embarrassing murmur of pleasure – not even sexual pleasure – to Daryl’s unending amusement.

“Liked that huh, Grimes?”

Rick ducks his head into Daryl’s neck, laughing into his skin, only realizing how intimate the action is a split second later. It doesn’t seem like the hunter minds though, so he doesn’t pull away.

Daryl continues kneading his shoulders and neck, even though Rick can feel him half hard against his thigh. He could easily slide his hand a few inches down and grip it into a full erection. His fingers are already so close, teasing along the skin of hip and navel, occasionally curling them into the pubic curls there. 

Rick doesn’t know why he doesn’t. It’s not out of a desire to tease or delay. Instead he tangles his other hand into Daryl’s hair, and kisses along his jaw. The skin there is warm beneath his lips and give easily when he scrapes his teeth softly, and then harder when Daryl’s hands falter. There’s a sound that’s half a gasp and half a hiss of pain, but Daryl’s already pushing his hips against Rick. It’s the sound Rick chases after as he mouths along the strong neck, and applies as much suction as he can manage right above collarbone.

Daryl shudders and mutters something suspiciously like “Fuck, yer mouth, ain’t ever imagined, fuck-”

Rick pulls away, eyes dark.

“You imagined this?”

Daryl blinks in a daze, and then startles. He looks away, grumpy and embarrassed, “Y’ain’t deaf, Grimes. Said I ain’t never, not the other way ‘round.”

Rick slots his thigh in between Daryl’s and rocks them together with deliberate rolls of his hips. It drags out a throaty sound of appreciation. He chases Daryl’s gaze until their eye meet again. The blue irises are clear, but his pupils are a slight ring larger.

“What did you imagine then, Daryl?”

After a moment, the hunter mumbles out a quiet “nuthin”, but Rick’s undeterred. He’s curious and relishing the red around Daryl’s ears. He’s never seen them go that color so many times a day before. Rick coaxes Daryl’s hips to thrust back against him, and it feels good enough that he nearly forgets their conversation.

The friction of his jeans is a little too much but he only cares to slide it down enough that it doesn’t get in the way.

“Anything”, Rick finds himself saying. Granting. Though in all honesty, he’s probably not ready for ‘anything’. At least not right this moment, not when they’re this new. But he can’t help but want what Daryl wants, and giving him that blank check of permission. It’s not the heat of the moment talking. They’ve skirted around one another for long enough.

Daryl stares back at him, eyes flitting over every feature of his face. Recognizing with a bewildered swallow the sincerity of those words. He seems to steel himself, and a moment later, he scoffs.

“Dunno what’cha want me t’ say, Rick. It really weren’t nuthin’ I could really think about. Hell, it didn’t fuckin’ seem possible, y’know? There ya were, wife and kids and best friend and shit, the fuck was I supposed t’ fantasize or jack off about?”

Rick’s breathing has fallen a bit off its regular pattern. He has to compensate by taking a large gulp of air, and it comes out funny and loud. Daryl spares him a glance, and there’s a bit of concern in his expression.

“Damn, did I break ya or somethin’?”

Rick leans in closer so that their noses are almost touching. That long? He wants to ask, except it would be such an unwelcome question.

“And afterwards?” He chooses to ask instead, quiet. Daryl has unconsciously followed his lead, and they’re lying on the bed, heads pillowed inches apart.

“Why’re ya so sure there was an afterwards?”

His eyes blink shut when Rick presses their foreheads together, and slides his hand past Daryl’s jeans and underwear. It’s tender and leaves the hunter squirming in his grip. Rick traces his thumb around the tip of Daryl’s erection, uncaring of the damp fabric against his knuckles.

He squeezes the base and keeps the hold tight until he reaches the head again, where Rick twists his wrist, and is rewarded by a quiet moan. He keeps the leisure stroke until Daryl starts bucking into his hand. His nails dig into Rick’s wrist, and his breath is hot between them.

Rick wishes they had something, anything to lessen the chaffing. He’s not too keen on stopping and spitting into his palm. Daryl is warm and satiny in his hand, slightly moist from precum and twitching every so often when Rick’s nail catches across the sensitive skin. He doesn’t want to let go when Daryl’s this close to him, breathing brokenly and wanting more.

When Daryl unfastens his jeans, Rick’s already half way there just from the hunter staring at him, eye to eye, face intense. Daryl keeps the eye contact and pointedly licks his palm and fingers in a long efficient stripe before encircling them both, jerking his fist hard and fast.

Rick grunts, and pulls Daryl’s hips closer still until there’s no longer any space between them, just long lines of contact. The slide is drier than what he finds most comfortable, and he must make a noise because Daryl is snorting and spitting into his palm again. Jesus Christ. Rick nearly prods Daryl to do it again, eyes transfixed on that wet mouth.

It’s better. It feels a lot better this time. When Daryl smears his,  _their_ , precum down his length and cups him beneath, Rick thrusts savagely into his hand. He keeps mouthing along Daryl’s jaw and chin until his lips burn from the scratch of beard. After a few impatient nudges, the hunter catches his jaw in hand and fits their mouths together.

It’s by no means their first kiss, but it feels like one that should be remembered for harder days. Rick’s lips are still sensitive, and he kisses lightly, nipping around the edges of Daryl’s mouth. Every time the hunter tries to lengthen the contact, Rick laughs into his mouth - a sound that’s staggered with small moans. Calloused finger pads trace the skin of his sac, alternating between light feathery touches and a full fisting grip. 

Daryl makes a keen of frustration in the back of his throat when Rick evades his attempt again. This time he slides a hand around the back of Rick’s neck and threads his fingers into the rings of curls there, keeping him in place.

“Y’ want m’ta beg or some shit? It ain’t gonna happen, a’right? Better cut yer losses ahead.”

Rick fastens his gaze onto the halfhearted glare, affection warming his chest and tugging into his heart like little feathered fishing hooks. Daryl’s lashes are low in that characteristic half lidded stare of wariness, but there’s less warning there than usual. He’ll never tell Daryl just how criminal it is when he narrows his eyes, muscles tight and strung into sharp definition. All the times he mentally filed away each confrontation, sealing the guilty lingering of his eyes behind a cold stare and even colder words.

“No? What if-” Rick murmurs, licking at his sore lips, “-I begged too?  _Please, Daryl._ ”

Daryl’s breath catches, unconsciously pulling a little firmer at Rick’s hair. His hips go erratic at that, drawing a quiet pant from both of them. He’s sure Rick can feel his pulse speeding up where his wrist is still pressed against the back of the other man’s neck.

When Rick licks slow and dirty across the seam of his mouth, Daryl squirms, blurting out embarrassing little grievances like “yeah, alright, fuck, whatever”, and “ya always so fucken’ manipulative in bed?” Rick only grins into his mouth and makes a casual, “mhm” sound against his lips. Daryl snorts, rolling his eyes with enough force that Rick’s own eyes hurt.

This time when Daryl leans in, Rick meets him half way, hot and sure, with tingling aching lips to show for it. There’ll be an unmistakable red purple bruise high on Rick’s neck tomorrow morning, impossible to hide or cloth. It only makes him grab harder at Daryl, shuddering at the suck and scrape of sharp canines.

Somewhere during the kissing, Rick remembers Daryl’s half unbuttoned vest that’s still hanging around his shoulders. He pushes it down Daryl’s arms, and allows himself a quick suck over a nipple when the hunter is distracted with undoing the tangled garment.

The response is a quick coiled kick to the shin, but it’s well worth it for the quicksilver moan that spills into the cell.

It’s hard to last long after that. Daryl bites into Rick’s lip when he comes, hand tightening reflexively in response. Rick breathes out a gasp and finishes after, rutting against the warm skin of Daryl’s sharp hipline. The hunter simply watches him, eyes following the movements of Rick thrusting against him, riding off the last quivering seconds of release. His fist is loose, but guiding around the base. There’s almost wonder and bewilderment in his eyes.

They lean against each other afterwards, catching their breaths, and feeling hammering heartbeats wherever they’re touching. Still in a daze, Rick wipes halfheartedly at Daryl’s hip with his hand. He feels a reciprocating touch somewhere across his abdomen.

“And afterwards?” Rick asks around a sated smirk later, voice still a little deep around certain syllables.

Daryl looks at him uncomprehendingly, before it dawns on him how damn petty Rick can be sometimes, stubborn over an unfinished conversation. Though he knows Rick is only half-kidding. There’s always a certain note of seriousness in Rick’s eyes when he wants to be heard, or he wants to hear. And Daryl will always puzzle over this shift in his life- having people that want to hear his thoughts, and opinions. Having someone genuinely ask him a question to know how he’s doing.

Fuckin’ apocalypse turned his life topsy-turvy and ass backwards. And not just because of dead motherfuckers walking around eating the living.

Daryl leans in, almost like a whisper, and has a few seconds to decide if he wants to play if off as a joke, and murmur something filthy fitting the original context, or answer Rick’s actual question. He looks into Rick’s eyes, and sees the waiting and warmth, but also a carefully tucked uncertainty, schooled behind the rare bout of playfulness. It hits him harder than any gaze, dark with lust or soft from post-coital haze. A hoofed kick straight through his ribs, leaving his chest pressed free of any oxygen.

It’s the same pinch of eyebrows on his face when Daryl kicks away from the table, lips pressed into a line, and unwilling to speak his mind. The same look that comes his way when they’re trekking through the forests, and Daryl has an arm outstretched in front to warn Rick from making any sudden movements.

He recalls the shaky breath from weeks back when Daryl asked him if they were done, standing too far apart but far too aware of one another. The way he’d left it for Daryl to decide, looking up at the prison concrete, voice odd,  _“I don’t know. Are we?”_

Because of him, what the fuck.

Daryl thinks of the first thing and says it, hoping it conveys the knot in his throat, and the way his heart is pounding too fast again. It’s been long overdue, stretched over miles and months and miles again. Whatever this is, it began with a vicious twist of confused want, followed by nights and nights of loathing. Angry thumps of a palm against his temple and waking in the morning, mortified still that the concern and worry and natural gravitational orbit resumes. Stays.

Nothing’s ever stayed in his life longer than he could call it his, and lose it in a blink of an eye. There’s nothing permanent in his gas station style of living, and he’s mighty fine with it until he finds himself swarmed with a bunch of needy bitchy people that make demands and ask questions and goddamn makes him want to stick to them like a pesky flea. Makes him kind of want to be safe for them, and give whatever he has to offer in a selfless way he’s been taught to spit on and scorn. 

Must have been that shirt. Goddamn white as fuck, blinding as a slice of heaven or hell that day.  _Rick Grimes._  Scorched his retinas or something, and now it’s the only thing he wants.

There should be a better way to tell Rick, but maybe this is fine. For now.  

“Well, here we are, aren’t we?”

**Author's Note:**

> This oddly expanded from a random bit of writing on notepad that was at max 800 words, and was so tense and frustrated. I'd never planned to go back to it, and yet somehow so many months later I've circled back. A lot has happened during that time. Hashing this together was taking everything apart, and tossing it all into the trash. Thank you for reading. I'm terribly grateful.


End file.
